


advertise my secret (i don't really need it)

by acrossthesky_instars



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:04:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrossthesky_instars/pseuds/acrossthesky_instars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I can't believe I married you,' and other fun things Bellamy and Clarke say. </p><p>college parenting AU where Bellamy and Clarke are a little bit platonically married, and wine helps them deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	advertise my secret (i don't really need it)

**Author's Note:**

> so i love this song (speeding cars fyi) and i hate revision, apparently.  
> i hope you guys actually get what this is- we have this thing at uni where older students mentor freshers and you get all these complicated college families and i was getting emotional about graduating and thinking about clarke and bellamy being married and this happened, so yeah. that.

‘I can’t believe I married you.’

Bellamy looks up, dark eyes comically wide. He pulls the two wine bottles whose necks he had fisted in each hand closer to his chest. Protective Blake at his finest.

His scowl is mostly a smile, his scoff mostly arrogance.

‘I swept you off your feet, Griffin, and you know it.’

It is- at least- kind of true, so she smiles. They’d been out for a picnic by the riverside to celebrate the start of summer, and he’d arranged the chicken nuggets into a heart, slid a Haribo ring onto her finger with appropriate fanfare, and then taken her acceptance of his heartfelt (hunger-inducing) proposal as his cue to swing her into the water- with entirely _inappropriate_ fanfare.

(Their friends had cheered throughout.)

‘And the rest is _history_ ,’ Octavia had winked, had ducked the river gunk Clarke sent her way.

It had been the weirdest email Clarke had ever received, easily. Early enough on in her first year at Arcadia that she still checked her new email address obsessively, the email from Anya that read (only): _Surprise. I’m your mother_ was unexpected all on its own.

Still, further investigation into her new flatmates uncovered the university’s parenting scheme simply enough. Second and third years of the same or similar subjects- generally ‘married’ amongst themselves- acted as mentoring ‘parents’ to new students, helping to guide them through their first year- in any and all senses of the word.

Bellamy seemed to think this meant an intensive introduction to every drinking game he knew.

 _His_ parents had abandoned him early on, and she was fairly sure his obsession with the scheme stemmed from both aggressive abandonment issues and aggressive determination-not-to-abandon issues. If he hadn’t got to the Haribos first, she would have proposed to him herself; he was such a _dad_.

As it were, he studied Ancient History, she History of Art. It was never really a question, however proud Octavia was of her Pimms-induced puns.

Their child’s name was fairly non-descript- John Murphy- and Clarke’s Facebook stalking had turned up nothing.

They’d eventually sent him an email along the same lines as Anya’s, complete with the addition of a Darth Vader gif that Bellamy said he’d saved specially. The kid had replied briefly, but hadn’t bothered to acknowledge the arrangements they’d sent over for meeting him tonight.

Parents’ Formal was almost a big deal. The boys wore suits, the girls heels (Clarke almost wore both, but settled on letting Bellamy take a clutch bag of his own.) Formal dinners were a rite of passage all on their own, but Parents’ was a typically disastrous event.

Now, ignoring the sweep of Bellamy’s broad shoulders under his navy (he _knew_ navy suits were her favourite) jacket, and the way his combed hair is already curling free in the late September warmth, she points at the twin wine bottles.

‘Is one of them for me?’

He looks affronted, and meets her gaze baldly. ‘Clarke.’

She grins, wolfish. ‘I’m going, I’m going.’

She squeezes between a group of girls all in various shades of red and heads for the rosé table. A safe middle. Bellamy pokes her in the side.

‘It’s shit,’ he nods to the table she’d been approaching, ominously queue-free and topped with wine bottles that she thinks might be plastic. _Stay classy, Arcadia._

She shifts into the white queue (she’d lost too many dresses to stains) and looks around, craning to see their friends.

‘Do you think this Murphy kid will go for white? I don’t want to queue twice,’ Clarke murmurs absently.

A small cheer goes up on the other side of the bar, then: ‘Clarke.’

‘Or do you think he’s a pitcher-of-beer guy? Or- God, I hope he’s not some-fancy-spirit prick-‘

‘ _Clarke_.’

‘What?’ she snaps irritably, turning to Bellamy and following his gaze to the door.

He smirks, brown eyes dancing. ‘Monty and Jasper are here.’

There’s a flash of colour, and they appear, emerging out of the crowd around the bar like victors being welcomed home. Monty’s bow-tie is neatly tied if a little lopsided; in lieu, Jasper has a pair of goggles around his neck.

Their faces beam identical grins, their hands hold matching flasks of alcohol that are sure to be confiscated in about twenty seconds, and they wear matching suits, Jasper’s fuchsia, Monty’s sunshine yellow.

‘Fuck,’ Clarke says, sure her smirk mirrors her husband’s, ‘Miller’s going to _die_.’

‘I already did,’ a dry voice states, ‘the first time he suggested it. Then when he showed me the website. Tonight, I’m cruising.’

‘Are you drunk already?’ Bellamy demands, lifting one of the wine bottles up like he resented that he wasn’t.

Miller levels him with a look. ‘It’s yellow, Bellamy. My boyfriend is a _canary_.’

‘We were going for rhubarb and custard, actually,’ Jasper appears in a flash of pink. ‘Hey guys.’

‘Well, you really nailed it,’ Clarke says, at the exact same time that Bellamy says ‘But, _why_?’

‘Thanks,’ Monty says, shifting to give Clarke a (blinding) one-armed hug when Miller bares his teeth at him. ‘I swear, Raven was right behind us.’ He shrugs, and turns to Bellamy. ‘Where’s Octavia?’

Clarke hates how Bellamy’s eyes flicker, even just for a moment. She doesn’t know if it’s a Blake thing or just a sibling thing, but their fights are always vaguely apocalyptic.

‘She’s with Indra, her Mum,’ she supplies, and moves to grab a bottle of wine to cover her edging closer to Bellamy.

‘Urgh,’ Jasper shudders, ‘probably planning world domination with two swords and a pillow. She terrifies me.’

‘Which one?’ Bellamy asks mildly, and Jasper shrugs.

‘What would the pillow do?’ Miller muses, and Monty slides over to him, fast.

‘No-one can take over the world without a few solid naps, Miller,’ Raven states, flouncing into their little semi-circle in a floaty silver dress that looks ethereal with her shining hair, indomitable with her black boots.

‘Miller,’ she barks, and shoves something between him and Monty. ‘Here. Protection and all that.’

Miller takes what she offers, stares, and then holds up the offending object. ‘Sunglasses,’ he says flatly, and Bellamy’s laugh bursts out.

Miller’s lips twitches, and he hooks the RayBans into his jacket pocket. ‘Cheers, Reyes.’ She pats his chest.

‘You can totally rock the sexy FBI look now,’ Clarke adds.

Bellamy’s face twitches and his chest puffs out the littlest bit, but, before he can speak, Jasper steps into her direct eye-line, the picture of affront.

‘Are you saying I’m not rocking _my_ sexy look?’

Bellamy laughs again, and Clarke’s chest sparks. ‘You and Monty look like the guys in ‘Dumb and Dumber’.’

Raven smirks. ‘If the suit fits.’

Monty shoves her lightly but grins when she levels him with a gaze. ‘Yeah, I see that.’

Jasper grins, all teeth. ‘Awesome.’

‘ _Awesome?_ ’ It’s impressive how Miller seems to both growl and squeak all at once.

‘Griffin? Blake?’ Clarke looks up, and her gaze falls on another boy, shaggy-haired but face sharply angular. His half-smile feels acerbic.

‘You’re John?’ she asks, and quickly corrects herself when he growls ‘Murphy’. ‘I’m Clarke and this is Bellamy, hey.’

‘Welcome to the family, kid,’ Raven says in a falsely deep voice.

‘Who are you?’ Just like his suit and his cheekbones, Murphy’s voice is razor sharp.

‘Raven Reyes,’ she announces, ‘your ‘aunt’. And the human form of the 100 emoji.’

Murphy looks unimpressed. ‘You stole that from Brooklyn Nine-Nine’.

Raven raises an eyebrow, fearsome. ‘So?’

‘I would totally be the little alien emoji,’ Jasper continues. ‘Clarke, you’d be the fire. Bellamy, you’d be-‘

‘the little nerd guy with glasses, yeah I know.’ Bellamy finishes, and nods a greeting at Murphy.

‘I was going to say the volcano.’

‘I could be the spanner,’ Raven muses, ‘but I don’t think it sums up how amazing a person I am.’

‘Amazing.’ says Murphy flatly, and Raven’s eyes light with challenge.

Bellamy unscrews the cap of his first bottle and takes a swig. Clarke raises an eyebrow at him, then clinks hers against his and does the same. Murphy watches the exchange, shrewd.

‘So this is how it’s going to be,’ he says, and Clarke can practically see Bellamy’s hackles raising, even though the other boy’s tone carefully betrays no inflection.

Miller takes Monty’s hipflask and shoves it ungraciously into Murphy’s chest. ‘You’ll need this.’

Murphy’s eyebrows wing. ‘Are you _all_ raging alcoholics?’

‘Yep,’ chirps Raven, cheerfully. ‘Besides, do you not understand what formals are for?’

He scowls. ‘Literally, no. That’s the point. I got here like, yesterday.’

There’s a second that hangs silently on Raven’s smirk, and then- peacekeeper- Bellamy intervenes.

‘Do you not drink? There’s Coke and shit, it’s no issue. It’s just, you know- drinking games.’

‘I drink fine,’ Murphy retorts, his eye flashing to the inch or two Bellamy has on him in height.

‘Prove it, then,’ says Bellamy, simple, and Murphy looks just like Raven for a moment, lit with challenge. _He reads people like one of his books_ , Clarke thinks.

‘This is going to be fun,’ Miller mutters, sour, and Monty’s beam is as bright as his jacket.

‘Isn’t it?’

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They’ve barely sat down- Clarke between Bellamy and Raven, Murphy opposite sandwiched between Miller and Raven and Monty’s college daughter, a quiet pretty girl called Maya who Jasper keeps sneaking glances at, like it’s possible to be surreptitious in a lurid pink suit- before Bellamy flicks a coin across the table into Murphy’s face. Clarke, arranging her napkin over her white skirt, doesn’t even blink.

‘What the hell?!’ Murphy snaps, and half-stands again.

‘Chill out, man,’ Bellamy says, and though his voice is relaxed, Clarke can feel the smallest shiver of tension in the arm tucked against hers. ‘It’s a mercy penny.’

‘A what?’

‘Drinking game #1,’ Clarke says, leaning forward and ticking it off on her pointer finger. ‘Pennying. If, any time when your hand is touching your glass- like when you’re drinking, say- someone drops a penny in, you’ve got to down the whole thing.’ His eyes flicker down to the small wine glasses on the table, appraising. ‘Catch the penny between your teeth when you’re done, and if the person who threw it can’t tell you the year on the coin, they down theirs.’

‘Literally,’ Murphy says, ‘who thought of that?’

‘It’s fun,’ Clarke says lightly, ‘Bellamy’s mercy penny is your ammunition starter pack.’

‘I wouldn’t make any enemies this early on,’ Bellamy advises, and, overhearing, Maya’s face crinkles nervously.

‘It’s fun,’ Clarke repeats, softer, ‘honestly, there’s no real pressure. We won’t actually make you do anything.’

Bellamy flicks a penny on his thumb. ‘I might.’

She kicks him under the table. ‘ _We_ won’t. Peer pressure, Bellamy.’

‘Isn’t that what we’re training them for?’ Miller asks, and Clarke shrugs.

‘They can do what they want. We’re just showing them the classics so they don’t get tripped up.’

‘I won’t get tripped up,’ Murphy states, and Clarke’s smile- she’s sure- mirrors Bellamy’s sly little one.

‘What’s on the menu, anyway?’ Bellamy asks, leaning into her side in a wave of Bellamy smell, pine tree and the citrus scent of fresh air.

‘God, Blake, you and your stomach,’ Raven teases.

Bellamy scowls lightly, rubs his stomach over his dress shirt. ‘I’m a growing boy, Reyes. Man’s gotta eat.’

‘Atta boy,’ says Miller, and they bump fists.

It turns out, Clarke finds out within the first fifteen minutes or so of waiting for her starter, that Murphy is really not that interested in his degree, or hers, or Bellamy’s. He perks up slightly at the mention of Miller’s summer internship but otherwise, nada.

The drinking games, on the other hand.

By the time the soup arrives, Clarke’s fairly sure they’ve all had more wine than that one little bread roll could soak up, and she can feel the flush of it in her cheeks, see it in Bellamy’s. Even Murphy’s mouth has a little tilt to it.

The server puts the terrine of soup down in front of Clarke, and Bellamy hands her the first bowl for her to serve. One by one, she fills them- concentrating on avoiding that white dress- and he lifts each bowl right out of her hands to pass around.

Murphy’s eyes don’t miss a thing, and Clarke’s chest feel hot from more than soup warmth.

‘Careful, it’s hot,’ Bellamy murmurs, and when Murphy snarks ‘Thanks, _Dad_ ,’ she can’t help but smile.

It’s not so bad.

Monty leans forward, trying to catch Raven and Jasper’s attention. ‘Bets on me catapulting this penny into Clarke’s drink.’

‘No,’ Bellamy says, just as she says ‘Like you could.’

Murphy sizes her up. ‘I bet half my glass that you can.’

‘Matched,’ Miller announces, and Monty kisses his cheek, whisper-fast.

‘What about splashback?’ Maya adds softly. ‘She’s in a white dress.’

‘I can handle it,’ Clarke smirks, shimmies, adjusts her neckline when Bellamy’s eyes track heat there. It’s Monty she eyeballs. ‘Can you?’

Raven makes a big deal out of clearing obstacles and advising Monty on the right angle for his spoon. Clarke meets Bellamy’s eyes. ‘Don’t you frown at me, Blake.’

He smirks, but it’s soft. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess. I hope you know what you’re getting into.’

She licks her lips, feels his attention burning there. For once, it feels achingly like _potential_. ‘I’ll have you know I am a perfectly responsible adult without your help, Mr Blake.’

He leans in closer, his freckles flashing like tiny lights off his bright smile. ‘Prove it.’ Then, without taking his gaze off hers: ‘I’ll raise you a full glass, Monty.’

Clarke’s smile is predatory, the heat in her stomach curling at _what this new thing is that they’re doing_.

Murphy makes a sound like a cough. ‘Are you guys-‘

‘No,’ they say in unison, and because they don’t look away from each other, Clarke sees the flicker in his eyes to match the one she feels in her belly. ‘We’re friends,’ Bellamy clarifies, his voice low.

Murphy huffs. ‘But you’re so-‘

‘Married, aren’t they?’ interrupts Raven, her mouth full of bread. ‘Yeah, we know.’

The moment splinters, and Clarke pulls away, straightens her dress, fills up her glass.

‘Come at me, Green,’ she challenges, and draws a circle in the air like a target around her glass.

Monty’s face closes with seriousness- incongruent against the yellow- as he positions the penny, ostentatiously checking the year.

Raven drums her fingers on the table. ‘Three.’

Miller joins in. ‘Two.’

There’s a moment heavy with tipsy expectation, and the group next to them cheer something.

‘One,’ Bellamy murmurs, and Monty hits the end of the spoon and sends the coin spiralling into the air.

It clinks against the rim of her glass like a basketball, and drops in with a _plink_.

She groans. ‘Does that mean I have to down it?’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the apple crumble is served, Miller’s got a stain on his shirt from where Murphy pennied him on a gravy jug that Monty keeps ‘rubbing’, and the wine bottles are all almost empty.

 _Wine is disgusting_ , Clarke thinks, _why do we even drink it_?

Reaching down, Clarke rummages- carefully- until she finds what she’s looking for.

‘Did you smuggle Haribo in your purse?’ Bellamy asks, disbelieving.

She sucks on a cola bottle, playing for innocent wide eyes. ‘No.’

He scoffs, grabs a handful of gummy bears. ‘My hero. Next time, give me some for my clutch.’

She thinks, in a wave of affection, of how easily he said it. For all those times he’s held her when she’s cried, has shouted at her to get her riled up enough to write essays, sat in the mud with her for hours until even his hair was caked with soil just because her dad had died and Lexa had left and she needed to feel like she could make something, _anything_ , with her hands. She remembers how he held her hands after that, sore and cracked and dry, and washed them clean, and then bothered to clean their disgusting student-house bath just so she could have one. She remembers- after that- he was the first to make her laugh again.

She married him, that day by the river, not for the Haribo. She married him because he’d been her hero, all six-foot hair and smoulder of him.

Plus, well, there’d be the Haribo.

‘Here,’ she says abruptly, and shoves a heart at him. ‘I know they’re your favourite.’

‘You’re my favourite, Clarke,’ he says, mild, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t make her feel like it’s _him_ holding _her_ heart in his palm.

‘Ohmigod, loooooook,’ Miller says, in a sickly sweet falsetto that Clarke _knows_ comes half from his wine and half from the boyfriend’s hand in his lap. Miller could drink her under the table any day of the week, any liquor, but with wine, she reigns. ‘They’re exchanging hearts!’

Murphy snorts, and Clarke thinks _that’ll do_ and copies him, trying to wipe her thoughts clear off her face.

But then Raven says: ‘like they haven’t already,’ in a voice as casual as anything, and Clarke kind of hates her, kind of loves her, drinks some wine instead.

‘Haribos are sacred,’ she declares, and then, a distraction: ‘Raven Reyes, what are you doing to that spoon?’

Raven winks, licks a long line along the spoon to collect the last drops of custard. ‘Making sweet, sweet love to it.’

Clarke wishes, suddenly, that her heart didn’t belong quite so insistently to the person on the other side of her.

‘I’m leaving you for Raven’, Clarke announces, and shifts ungraciously into the other girl’s lap. One after the other, they both drink straight from Clarke’s wine bottle.

Raven’s eyes slide behind her, spoon forgotten and eyes shrewd. ‘I mean, I would, Griffin. I really would. But that’s not it, and we all know that.’

Clarke pouts, tipsy enough for her needy side to come out. ‘Not what? Know what?’

‘Blake,’ Raven shouts- or that’s what it sounds like right next to Clarke’s ear- ‘she’s all yours.’

Clarke doesn’t have time to protest before she’s slid right over her own chair into Bellamy’s lap instead. He’s warm and comfortable, but his pretty, pretty suit is slippery; she’d slide right onto the floor if they didn’t reach for each other.

Right as her fingers lock around his skinny tie- exactly the sky blue of her eyes, her drunken brain notes- his arm encircles his waist and his fist clutches in the material of her dress.

His forehead, yanked forward like a puppet by her ministrations, bumps her cheekbone and his five o’clock shadows grazes something sparking across her skin.

She meets his eyes, _feels_ him swallow.

‘This is _hot_ ,’ Murphy whispers, ‘who knew I got a side of soft porn with my crumble?’

‘Murphy,’ Monty growls, and Jasper’s attention wanes from Maya long enough to slam his head onto the table.

The tension cracks, and Clarke laughs to the rumble of Bellamy’s chuckle encircling her.

‘You wish, Murphy,’ she teases, and uses Bellamy’s tie to direct him into a hug, warm and _friendly_. They _are_ only fake-married.

Like he’s read her thoughts: ‘I can’t decide if you’re like teenagers or bickering pensioners,’ Murphy muses and Raven sniggers.

‘I’ve been stuck on that one for years,’ Monty advises sagely, the sheen in his eyes dispelling the solemnity he tries to adopt. ‘That’s just Bellamy and Clarke.’

‘Bellarke!’ Jasper shouts from his end of the table, and Bellamy groans.

‘No name sharing ‘til we’re _actually_ married,’ Clarke says lightly, but then Bellamy says ‘that’ll never, _ever_ happen,’ and her soul shrivels up somewhere behind her screen of self-respect. She pulls away, just an inch. _Friends_. _Husband_. _Friends_.

There’s a silence, and then, like he’s realised what he said, he hurries to correct himself, urgent enough that Clarke’s self-esteem feels a little better, even over her bruised chest.

‘The _name_ ,’ he clarifies, ‘I meant the name. Down with Bellarke.’

For her own sake, Clarke pretends that she can’t hear Jasper nonsensically chanting ‘Up with Bellarke’ under his breath.

For the rest of the meal, she sits in her own seat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

‘Are you avoiding me?’

She jumps, manages to turn on her heels because she’s burnt through the worst of the wine now.

‘No,’ she lies to Bellamy’s blank expression, and watches the barely-there disbelief wash across his face before he controls it. She swallows, because his hands in his pockets make his suit look more than pretty- make him look more than just about every adjective she can scramble together- and because she hates it when Bellamy schools his expression from her.

Still.

‘No,’ she says again, and this time it’s only his eyes that betray that minute reaction. ‘Just busy catching up with-‘ she glances around, desperate and trying not to look it ‘-catching up with Luna.’

‘Luna?’ Bellamy repeats, his eyebrows brushing his hair. ‘You haven’t liked her since she turned you down for that group project.’

Damn him and his encyclopaedic brain.

‘I have a lot of respect for Luna,’ she says stiffly, and wishes fervently for either her wine or her composure. Preferably both.

The silence between them is heavy in a new way that she instantly, instantly hates.

‘Clarke,’ he starts, and she steps back just as he steps forward. Her stomach lurches at the hurt in his face- _that_ he doesn’t try to hide- and she wants to take it back.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, cracking open suddenly. ‘I’ll be fine in the morning. It’s just- I’ll be fine in the morning. We can pretend it never happened.’

‘Pretend _what_ never happened, Clarke?’ Bellamy runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. ‘If I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done, how can I fix it?’

‘There’s nothing for you to fix, Bellamy,’ she says softly, ‘you haven’t done anything.’

His eyes flash dangerously. ‘Tell me what it is, Clarke. I’m not joking around.’ He laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘I absolutely cannot handle not talking to you _and_ Octavia.’

Another stutter of her heart, but to cover it: ‘I think you’re forgiven. I saw her step on the toes of someone who was talking about you earlier. That probably re-endeared you, if nothing else.’

He smiles, but it drops off his face like a picture without a hook. ‘Do you need to step on my toes?’

She laughs, the edge of it a little bitter. ‘Bellamy’.

‘For fucks sake, Clarke,’ he snaps, ‘give me _something._ ’

 _God_ , she thinks, unable to stop herself, _angry Bellamy Blake in a suit. It was nice having supportive knees, back in the day_.

And maybe because of that pulse of desire, she speaks.

‘You said you didn’t want to marry me,’ aware of how ridiculous she sounds. Shocked, his mouth opens straight away, but she holds a hand up. ‘Yeah, I know you corrected yourself straight away. I realised that as soon as I sobered up a bit. But’- she shrugs- ‘I was a bit embarrassed of, you know, how I reacted.’

‘Ignoring me,’ he states, and his face gives her absolutely nothing, damn him.

‘Yeah,’ she acquiesces, ‘and of how I feel. Alcohol’s a depressive, and all that.’

‘How you feel,’ Bellamy repeats, his tone flat. The alcohol comment, it seems, he completely ignores.

There’s another long silence. Or short; she doesn’t think she’s judging accurately.

‘I would marry you,’ he says finally. It’s his turn to shrug, deliberately nonchalant, but she can read the tension in his shoulders screaming how hard he’s trying not to look at her. ‘Properly, I mean.’

Her heart stops, starts, thunders. ‘That’s a lot of pressure.’

His gaze swings round to hers, whip-crack fast. ‘What?’

‘I mean, I’m all for dating,’ she says, and her blood is singing and her fingers twitching just the smallest bit, already feeling his curls between them. ‘But I’m only twenty-one, and you’re-‘

His mouth on hers is hot, his hands hotter, and she burns up, curling into him like a flame.

It is, she muses, exactly how kissing your best friend should be. Familiar, comforting, born of balance and knowing each other in every way- including, apparently, this way. It is also exactly how kissing your husband, she imagines, might be- electric in an endless kind of way, like he’s tracing sunlight into her skin with the drag of his fingers.

God, she can’t wait to feel those hands _everywhere_.

Which she’ll get to do, she hopes- knows. Because that’s what kissing _her boyfriend_ is like. What kissing Bellamy is like.

A moment later, she pauses, and whispers against his mouth where she can still taste the wine on their lips. ‘There’d better be Haribo rings involved.’

He laughs, carefree like he never is except with her, and it makes her fizz in a way she hasn’t felt since she was a paint-splattered child. ‘Aren’t there always?’

She hums, and when she reaches up for him again, he meets her halfway- in unison, like always.

She supposes it’s true, what they say. _You just_ _know_.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr (acrosstheskyinstars and here-isthedeepestsecret) <3  
> (kudos/comments/random rants at me are always appreciated)


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